


Staying Power

by Squash (Squashers)



Series: History Of Melancholia [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squashers/pseuds/Squash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's distracting, this worry. But he knows his frustration and helplessness is nothing compared to how Grantaire feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staying Power

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit another one so soon! This might be it for a while though, unless I suddenly get yet another idea. But the idea for this one came on the heels of finishing up the last chapter so yeah.  
> This one takes place sometime after What Brings Us To Our Knees, I think.

The sun is spilling through the window onto Enjolras' desk, a polygon of light brilliantly spotlighting the paperwork spread across its surface. Enjolras is typing furiously on his laptop, the kind of furious that indicates something is wrong, not the kind that means such intense concentration that fingers are moving faster than the speed of light. It's only when Combeferre's shadow falls across his desk that Enjolras stops pounding at the keyboard and slumps in his chair.

“Ow.”

Combeferre hooks his ankle around a wheelie chair in the middle of the floor and pulls it closer to sit down. “Are you okay?”

“I have a massive headache and I don't know how to word this sentence so it sounds as respectful as I need it to be.” Enjolras rubs his forehead and then pillows it with his arms on the desk, his elbow glancing painfully off the corner of his laptop. “Ow. Sorry. I'll stop typing so loudly. I'm sure it's annoying.”

“No, you were fine. You just seem upset. What's going on?”

“Nothing, I'm fine.” Combeferre peers deadpan at him over his glasses. Enjolras shrugs and sits up a little to face him. “It's just Grantaire. I'm worried about him, that's all. I've spent the last few days sitting with him until all hours of the morning, trying to convince him that he's not worthless or annoying or a burden or any of the other things he believes. I love him, and I don't mind doing it; it's just that waking up a few hours later is hard.”

His fingers wander across his desk to a Post-It note pad, and he peels off a sheet and begins to tear it into tiny squares. His desk slowly piles up with ragged yellow confetti. It's hard to explain to other people the emotional effort it takes to watch someone you love beat themselves up over something you know isn't true but can't seem to convince them to believe the same. Because he’s been there on the nights when Grantaire was at his worst; he’s seen him cry and scream and stare blankly at the wall, seen the anxiety attacks and the vomit dashed over the insides of the toilet. He’s been there in the mornings after a particularly bad night, when Grantaire was tired enough to be calm, and walked sluggishly around in the sunlight, not saying much and curling up with a sketchbook, shied away like his entire body was an open, tender bruise. He's been that constant presence, that permanent pillar of support and comfort. It's been more stressful than he thought. He's come home assuming the worst and sat at work in worried fear and watched him lie there or cleaned up after him feeling so helpless and stayed up at night just talking, trying to dispel all the dark ideas and notions in the head that lay beside his on the pillow.

“You're doing the best you can,” Combeferre reassures, palm up on the desk. “You've done great. Because of your support he's still around, he's still clean, he's still actively trying his best to function. It's a good thing he's got you to support him.”

“I know.” Enjolras' body rolls forward and he shoves his hands into his hair, a growl of distress climbing out of his throat. “It's so fucking frustrating and exhausting for _me_ just trying to help him. I can't imagine how exhausted and frustrated he must be. It's probably a thousand times worse. It hurts to know that.”

“I think it's good that you think about that.”

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel like such an asshole because I suggest something or offer help and he doesn't even try or doesn't accept my help and I get annoyed and frustrated that I feel helpless and nothing is working or doing anything. And it's such a dick thing for me to do. I know he's trying his hardest. Even when it looks like he's not trying, he probably _is_. And I know it's hard for him to start things or to convince himself it's worth it or to feel like he's worthy of help. I know he sometimes feels like there's no point in trying to fix anything. I get that it's harder for him than it is for me. So I feel so awful when I get frustrated that he doesn't consider the things I offer or when he says he'll do something and then he just lays there and stares at the wall. I know I'm full of shit and I hate it. I hate that I think like that of him sometimes. Because I know, I fucking know he's trying _so_ hard and he's dealing with _so_ much and half the time his brain isn't even cooperating no matter what he tries.”

In the silence, Enjolras almost wants to laugh. He's sitting here complaining about this when he's able to get up every morning and go to work and talk to his friends without fear and eat and talk and think without doubting himself at every turn. Even when he does have a gloomy day he's able to push it away; it's not an all-consuming force the way Grantaire's depression drains him and clutches at him despite his attempts to shake it off. Combeferre places a hand across his.

“You're good for him. Grantaire has so much strength, and you do too. The fact that you're able to offer him a hand at every turn is great. He trusts you and he loves you and I think you help him work to love himself. I think Charlotte would be proud of the both of you. I think you've come far.”

“Thanks, 'Ferre.” Then he rubs his forehead again, brows pinching together. “Ow. Ugh.”

“I'll get you some painkillers. Do something else besides stare at that sentence for a while, okay?”

Enjolras sighs and slumps back onto the desk as Combeferre stands. “Uh. Fine.”

So he rips up more Post-It notes. It's a something else, and his head is throbbing and the sun is really, really bright.

And it's stupid, when he manages to think non-head pain thoughts again, that he simply goes back to a train of thought that he shouldn't even be considering. Because why should he think about ever leaving? He loves Grantaire more than almost anything he's ever experienced in his life. He can't remember feeling so much at once about another human being before, not like this. Not with the kind of fire that makes him want to burst into tears and yell from the bottom of his lungs and wrap his entire body around Grantaire just to try and crawl inside his ribs to make them feel a little less empty.

But it's an anxiety that's there, even if it's foundless and pointless and fucking stupid to think about. He can't ever leave. He just can't. What would happen to Grantaire if he left? Everything would fall apart, he knows that. Because you can have all the loving friends in the world try and support you, but that would never replace the hurt of both a sister and a lover gone. And he knows by the way Grantaire clings to him in the night or paws restlessly, wordlessly at his arm for simple affection and support that he can't seem to articulate, that no one else will do. He can tell by the way Grantaire asks so many questions about 'am I being annoying am I inconveniencing you I'm sorry I'm so useless how can I make it easier for you can you hug me just for a little while is it okay if I just lie here on the couch for a while does it bother you that I complain a lot I'm sorry do you want me to leave,' that he's one of the only ones that has stayed for this long.

The thought catches itself in Enjolras' throat-- if he was to ever leave, there might not _be_ a Grantaire for much longer after that.

It's not a thought he likes. There is no pride in feeling like the only one keeping everything from blowing away. There is no benefit to knowing that he's the only one Grantaire really trusts or talks to. There is nothing good to come from the knowledge that he alone is the crutch and the raft and the pillar for Grantaire. There is nothing pleasant to come from the knowledge that there is no backup if something happens to him the way it did to Charlotte, or if for some reason he has to go.

But he shouldn't be thinking about this, leaving or giving up or whatever it is. He doesn't _want_ to leave. He doesn't _want_ to give up. He doesn't think he could if he tried. It's not in his nature as a person, and he could never walk away from someone he loves. Grantaire is a human as much as he is, and he deserves as much effort and love and respect, maybe more. Definitely more. Just thinking Grantaire's name gives Enjolras a feeling in his stomach like he wants write a letter to every person on the planet informing them of how huge this feeling is, like it can't just be contained by his body.

Besides, the wall of exhaustion and frustration he finds himself banging his head on despite his love is nothing compared to sea of it that he knows Grantaire finds himself drowning in most of the time.

“Here,” Combeferre returns to his side with a couple painkillers and a glass of water. Enjolras smiles up at him gratefully and takes them both, swallowing and then washing it down with some mouthfuls from the glass. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Enjolras sighs, rubbing at the corner of his eye. “Yeah. I'm just tired and frustrated. I love him so much but sometimes I doubt my ability to help him. I get so scared to look at his photographs sometimes, you know? It's like looking at the images he takes just makes it so much bigger and more real.”

“It's good that he has that coping mechanism.”

“I know, but it only ever means he's getting bad again. And I look at the pictures he takes and it just makes me scared that I can't ever help him. That I don't really know what's going on in his head and then I look at the pictures and I feel like it's worse than I thought. Because how Grantaire sees himself is so different from how I see him, I think.”

The streak of light illuminates Combeferre's face as he kneels down and takes both of Enjolras' hands in his. “Enjolras. You are helping him _so much_. Just you being there for him means he's so much better than he was. And I think your love for him helps him feel better about himself, too. You don't push him, you don't get angry at him. The fact that you try to understand and support and help and encourage him means everything. To us, and to him. You're doing good.”

“Thank you, Combeferre. Really.” He sweeps the torn Post-It pile into his palm, scattering the yellow confetti strips in the trash can under his desk. He squeezes Combeferre's elbow as his friend stands with a sympathetic smile. Work is still sitting there, the sentence waiting to be edited sits halfway completed with the cursor blinking expectantly at him. He pulls the computer closer with a sigh.

There probably isn't a key to magically make Grantaire better, but Enjolras knows he's stay and be whatever he needs to be, safety net, pillar, crutch, encouragement, anything. He's going to finish these emails and go home and tell Grantaire he loves him and cook them dinner and maybe take a shower and sit beside Grantaire and touch his skin and love him enough for the both of them, because really, it's what they both need.


End file.
